Scared not so straight
by Marlowe97
Summary: He'd have to learn to take the consequences into account and decide after contemplating them if it was worth the risk. If a bag of sweets and a six-pack of beer was really worth it.  - Dean gets send to prison as a teenager to scare him straight -
1. Chapter 1

**Title:**Scared (not so) straight

**Author:****marlowe78**  
><strong>Rating:<strong> Adult, I'm pretty sure  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Dean, OMCs (some John, Sam and a little old lady with a sailor's mouth)  
><strong>Word count:<strong>7.709b (all)

**Warnings:**rape, violence

Thanks go to **soncnica** as always for being awesome.

**Summary:**He'd have to learn to take the consequences into account and decide after contemplating them if it was worth the risk. If a bag of sweets and a six-pack of beer was really worth it.

_Written for this prompt by **crowley_gal**: Okay, I was bored and flipping through channels trying to find something to watch on TV and came across a show called beyond scared straight.  
>It was about a group of at risk teens taken to an adult prison for a day to see what it is like.<br>So of course, I had to ask myself don't this seem like a great thing for Dean to experience._

I know that Dean fit in to prison life well in Folsom Prison Blues but I would think that 15-17 year old Dean would have a different reaction.

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><p>When he got caught, Dean didn't take it seriously. He'd been caught before, shoplifting or a little b and e. Didn't ever matter, he'd learned to use his mouth with a stunning alacrity, as he'd been assured.<p>

No, not that kind of alacrity. Jesus. Perverts!

Dean was a master of the tongue, a wielder of eyelashes, a fucking genius with excuses and the overall heavyweight-champion of the sad, hungry and sorrowful, lost gaze.

It hadn't failed him once since kindergarten, and so it was no wonder he was surprised when the woman behind the counter didn't lift her gun from him while calling the sheriff.

Dean knew guns, better than anything else, if he was honest, and it made him able to judge her stance and her familiarity with the weapon. It was a Winchester double-barrel shotgun – what irony – safety still on but her brown-speckled thumb was close enough to it to tell him that it was deliberation and not lack of knowledge that had it still locked.

She clicked it on before taking one hand away to dial, and still she didn't waver, aim straight on him. No, Dean wasn't gonna move an inch in that shop. Not one fucking inch.

"Ben? Yeah, got me one 'a those shopliftin' scumbags here…" Wow, the little old lady, certainly beyond seventy, had a sailor's mouth nearly as bad as his dad. "What? Naw, still breathn'…. Yeah, well, hurry up ya lazy ass ova here, boy, and git me that little fuck outa my shop and teach hima fucking lesson already. … What? Jeeezas, fucking fifth time in a month an' you gonna tell me howta handle them young punks? If you ain't handling them, you can pick 'em up tussed and trussed, or I'll try savin' the worlds some tax-dollars for putting scum like that behind bars…. Jeeezus, shut ya mouth and git that boy outta here!"

She slammed the receiver on the phone and stared at Dean with cold eyes and a lot of disgust. The thought of apologizing went right out of his mind and the innocent, guilty smile fell from his face with that stare and Dean felt himself shrinking to the size of Sammy.

"What'cha looking at, punk?" she sneered and like a dog in front of its pack-leader, he averted his gaze to the floor. He didn't want to test if she'd been serious on the phone.

His dad, surprisingly, hadn't brushed the incident off like Dean had hoped and imagined. Usually, he got a cuff to the head and a 'don't let that happen again' and that'd be it, but this time, he got a real talking to.

The basics of the rant was that Dean had to learn to take responsibility for the fuck-ups he created and that he couldn't live on the belief that someone would dig him out of the shit he was in. He'd have to learn to take the consequences into account and decide after contemplating them if it was worth the risk. If a bag of sweets and a six-pack of beer was really worth it.

Years later, Dean would understand that piece of wisdom. Now, though, he was just pissed and disappointed.

What good was his dad when he wouldn't even be able to get him out of this stupid sentence? _"Scare 'em straight"_was the name of that lunatic-idea. Put the delinquents in with real criminals for a day and a night to get them to understand the severity of the path they were treading.

Bull-shit.

Dean knew about severity fine, thanks very much. Severe concussion, severe lacerations, severe alcohol-poisoning, severe monsters. His fucking life was severe.

_"It'll do you good"_ was all, Dad had said and Dean hadn't had the guts to tell him that he didn't think so. _"Suck it up and learn something"_, Dad had said and yeah this time Dean hadn't even bothered to take a deep breath to argue.

What could he learn in a fucking prison anyway? Maybe they'd teach him how to cook better.

Yeah. No, not much chance for that.

"So then, Winchester. Ready to learn your lessons?" the guard asked and since there was no alternative, Dean nodded. "Good. Over here, spread you legs and bend over"

Not an experience Dean wanted to repeat. Like, ever.

"Winchester? Your number's fourteen-eighty. Don't forget, it's the name you'll be called. Now, kids" the head-guard announced to the ten boys around Dean's age who were assembled in the yard, shackles on hands and feet and clad in disgusting orange. He'd been the last one, due to alphabetical reasons. Next to him stood a slight kid with dyed hair, a nose-ring and two earrings. In one ear.

He looked bored and relaxed, something Dean wanted to copy but couldn't quite manage. He was tense as a bowstring and shifting, no matter how much he forced himself to calm down. His hands were itching under the metal and even though he hated to admit it, he was scared.

This wasn't a den of rawheads, or a pissed-off ghost. This were people, hard people, angry people and they didn't have much to lose. Most importantly, Dean didn't have a weapon and salt would be more than useless except if he threw it into someone's eyes. And even then it wouldn't help for long.

All his life, masses of people had made Dean uncomfortable. He knew the worth of anonymity, but he also knew a lot about the danger lurking in between a crowd. In every human, actually.

So Warren, the kid next to him, was admirable in his coolness. No matter that Dean knew how to shoot a gun and kill twenty kinds of monsters – this boy probably knew more about real life than Dean ever would. Even more than Sammy ever wished to know, he secretly thought, but that was the moment they got shuffled along and into the cell-block.

_"You'll be placed with real prisoners, though of course with your own cell. You'll see the day-to-day life in a prison and what it entails and you'll hopefully decide that this is not a place you want to visit again" _

The judge had been stern and hard, looking at Dean with disapproval. He'd stood in front of him alone; Dad had to take care of Sam, or something. He wasn't really sure why his father hadn't come with but there had been some explanation the night before. He was pretty sure, at least.

"Hey, Warren!" Dean called to the cool boy. "Wait up, man" For his trouble, Dean got a sneer and a cold shoulder, though to be fair Warren waited a little so he could catch up.

"What? And stop calling my name in here! I don't wanna anyone know it"

"Uh... oh, yeah, sorry. Right, that's pretty smart. Uhm…" Dean scratched his head "So… what did they bust you for?"

"You want some advise, kid?" Dean felt himself bristle at the nickname. He wasn't much younger than Warren, if at all. He was sixteen, and Warren wouldn't have been over eighteen or he'd be in here for real. "Don't ever ask that, don't ever talk to anyone. Don't let them see you're new to this and don't interact with them. They are scum, and soon you'll be outa here. So remember that" He turned, his earring wiggling in the harsh neon-light and threw one more advice over his shoulder "Don't make friends here, boy, and don't ever talk to me again"

Raising his eyebrows, Dean stared after him. Huh.

So for the rest of the morning, Dean tried to do as Warren had said. It made sense, in a way, to try and keep your head down and not interact. The prisoners looked at the kids with expressions reigning from mild interest down to outright disgust, but the worst were the stares Dean felt on the back of his neck, the ones that were hidden the moment he turned around to find the source. It made his skin prickle and his hair stand on end, and still, even with all the training, he couldn't ever find who was responsible.

Oh, he knew that kind of stare. Had felt it before, once he'd even got the follow-up-grip on his ass, and he wasn't talking about the … nope, not going there. Not ever. He'd also seen the look pointed at Sammy, though, and that time it had been very obvious who it was.

That creepy fucker would probably still need a cast on his wrist, Dean thought. He'd been pretty thorough.

So up until midday, he tried to find the creep who was too interested in his skin, jumpy, jittery and fucking scared. Yes, scared. No-one there to impress, so he could admit it, at least to himself. Also, his dad had said often that fear was healthy, fear kept you alive and sharpened your senses. As long as you didn't let it act for your brain, it was a good thing to have. Just never let it take control.

It was hard, controlling the shivers that ran up his spine when Dean was placed in the kitchen. He peeled potatoes and tried to catch a glimpse at his admirer, but the kitchen was open to the common-room and anyone in there or with him behind the counter could be responsible.

Fear had always made Dean act weird. Some people got quiet and hid, some went quiet and dangerous, like his dad. Dean, though, it made talkative and cocky.

"So, any of you guys ever heard about the potato that looked like God?" he asked into the quiet hum of conversation around him. "No? Well, let me tell ya, it got really surprised when it learned that Last Supper was meant literal…"

He didn't stop after that bad joke. He couldn't stop, not after letting his mouth run free. Weirdly enough, talking made his mind sharp, gave total clarity to his surroundings and made him aware of all the weapons around him. He could stab anyone who'd dare touch him, a potato to the nose could break it and incapacitate anybody, at least long enough to get away. He was still lanky but his muscles were trained and strong. He might not ever get one over the tough guys out there, but he was slippery and fast. And there was the secret weapon. That was pretty helpful, as he'd learned. Good thing Dad had told him about it.

After a while, he noticed that the men around him had changed their attitude. Instead of annoyed boredom all over, he now got two guys leaning against the counter and talking to him, grinning and shooting the shit. One of them, Mario, had been busted for breaking-and-entering, and Oliviero was in for assault with a deadly weapon. Dean hadn't asked more, but Olli had been pretty forthcoming when he'd raised his eyebrow in question.

"My old man got handsy with my sis" was enough for Dean to nod and smile grimly. If anyone ever got handsy with Sam, he knew, he'd be in for more than just assault. Or not, depending on his dad leaving him something to clean up.

So Olli and Mario were talking to him, teasing him for his youth and his attitude and that was why it took a while to sink in: he wasn't watched anymore.

Whoever it was that had had his eyes on him, he wasn't there anymore. Or not interested, maybe.

After dinner, which he and one of the other kids had to serve, much to the amusement of the inmates, Dean was relieved from kitchen-duty and re-assigned to the library. Of course, he mused while following the guard, even in prison he managed to get dumped into the library. Life wasn't fair.

The room was dusty and dark, and when the light was switched on it was too bright and clinical to fool anyone into believing it was a free place. The windows were high up and barred, the shelves seemed shaky and old and had probably been cheap or even from charity. They didn't match, some where a different color, some a different make, some plastic and some wood.

Even Dean, who was not a book-person, had to admit that every other library he'd been in was comfy in comparison.

"Now, boy. There's Bob O over there. He's gonna tell ya what to do and where to put what. Have fun" the guard winked, and Dean didn't really care for his lewd smirk. He was joking. Right? Right?

"You the Kid?" A man – no, a fucking mountain! – appeared from behind one of the shelves, tattooed and bald and with arms the size of his dad's thighs. He had small eyes, squinty, and his chest was really giving the prison-slacks a test for stability. Dean was pretty sure that if Bob O would breathe in he would have to duck the flying fabric.

He was smelly and three of his teeth looked black until Dean realized that they were simply missing.

"Uhm…" All bravado faded when the Mountain grinned a lewd smile and took a loooong look, his gaze travelling all over, stilling on his crotch and then again at his mouth. "W-What should I… do? Here? I mean…"

Fuck. So much for not showing fear. Dean straightened and tried to look confident, but he was pretty sure that the guy was seeing right inside and realizing that he was pretty shaken.

"Well well well… You aaw' a fiiiiine boy tha's brought to me. Fiiiine boy indeed…"

Dean swallowed, hard, and tried to find something – anything – to be used as defense should Mr. Happy Giant make good on his gaze. There were only books, most of them paperbacks. Those wouldn't help much, but maybe he could … give him a papercut?

"Look," he tried "I'm really not here to give you trouble or anything. Also, I'm really not tasty and so, uh, I'm all stringy. So please, don't eat me?"

The man before him startled and was there a tick in the corner of his eyes? Just when Dean was sure he saw a ghost of a smile – and he was really good at spotting ghosts, just so you know! – Bob's face fell back into a mask of lust and there was absolutely no hint of humor in it. Dean must've imagined it.

"Naaaaw, you ain't no trouble, pretty boy. Noooo trouble at all…"

Great.

Two hours.

Two hours of that mountain breathing over his neck, of that giant leering at him and making lewd remarks and Dean was ready to crack. So far, there hadn't been anything really… upsetting, but he was feeling caged in and threatened nonetheless. And when Bob touched his lower back, quite gently considering what he'd told him what he liked to do 'wi' em preeeetty boys', his resistance snapped.

He threw back his elbow, dark satisfaction curling in his stomach when he felt it connecting with something. "Stop touching me, you freaking pervert!" he yelled, whirling around sharply to deliver a second punch. Bob was a half-foot away from him, rubbing his cheekbone which had been hit. The sight of that made Dean's elbow tingle and his brain aware of the spreading tendrils of pain that were crawling up his arm. He shook them off, buried them deep. There was a threat in front of him, and he had to concentrate.

"Boy-o-boy, ya shoul'na hav' don tha'", Bob murmured and Dean snarled, not even embarrassed about the animal-like sound. The man-mountain was in front of him, between the exit and Dean and there was a wall to his left and shelves to his right. He knew from the time spent stacking books that the shelves led into a dead-end, and that was not where Dean wanted to end.

He had to get past the prisoner, somehow. Pure strength wasn't gonna do anything, but maybe he could outwit the man?

Swiftly, Dean delivered a kick to the Bob's instep, not really meaning to connect but trying to make him back off a little. It worked, and though the mountain grinned over getting his foot out of the way, Dean had gotten one baby-step further to escaping.

"S' the madder, boy-o? Not fast 'nough?"

Despite being scared shitless, this time Dean didn't talk. It was more than simply being watched and being creeped out. He was in real danger here and weaponless, there was no second, no brain-cell, no breath left to waste. He needed to focus on survival. With a growl, he charged swiftly, feigning a hook to the man's midsection but kicking out with his knee into his groin instead when Bob tried to dodge.

It was a good move, a great one even. Bob groaned and moaned and slumped over, leaving a small but workable space between him and the shelf. Taking the chance, Dean slipped through the opening and behind the man, all senses locked on escaping.

He didn't make it.

Huge hands grabbed his arm, yanked him back against a chest full of muscle and a hard, unyielding stomach, an arm snaking around his midriff and holding him fast.

"NO!" Dean yelled, struggling hard. "No, let go, let go, let me out!"

But the man held him, tightening his grip the more Dean struggled and wriggled and growled into his ear. "Mistake, mistake, buddy. Good move but boy, never ever leave your enemies standing, never ever let an enemy behind your back, not if he's not lying down in agony"

"Fuck, you fucker, let me go! I'll show you agony if you don't, you stupid, moronic meat-ball!"

"Oh boy, oh boy… another very important lesson? Never ever insult anyone who's got the drop on ya"

And without any apparent effort, the man turned them around, not even slightly bothered by Dean's fighting and kicking. He shoved him against the wall and pressed into him, moved one of his now free paws over Dean's mouth and held it shut. No matter how much he tried, Dean couldn't move his jaw enough to bite him. He wanted to, oh fuck, did he want to.

"Now, boy, let me teach you a very, very important lesson" the disgusting warmth of another person's breath made Dean want to puke, shivers of strain and fear and cold terror running over his skin. "In here, the rules are simple and hard. I told you some already, but there are a few basic ones: don't be weak or show fear, or anyone will take advantage of it. Don't be too hard or too strong, or anyone will try to get one over you. Don't be overconfident, because that only makes them want to show you your place – and it ain't anywhere near where you think it is. Don't be rude, don't be too cocky and don't show your cards before you have to. And you wanna know the important thing?" Dean tried to shake his head but it wouldn't budge, the arms holding him too strong. He felt a moist breath in his ear and the hot body pressing even closer, like trying to push him into the wall. Bob started to whisper now, lowly and wet and so full of a promise that it made Dean's insides whimper. "Do not look like a victim"

With that, Bob snatched him at his shoulder, turned Dean around quickly and shoved his back against the wall, head cracking on the concrete with a dull sound.

"I'll do ya a faiva, boy. Won't leave no bruises on ya face. No-un will know, juuuuust the two of us" chuckling, the man started to hum while caressing Dean's body through the jumpsuit "we can make it if we try, just the two of us…"

When he'd reached his hips, Bob looked into his eyes and a wicked grin spread over his ugly face. Slowly, his hand wandered farther along his thigh and just when his thumb was close to Dean's privates, it was enough.

Up to then, the arm pressing into his neck had been sufficient to hold Dean still but this… this was gonna end only one way, only one possible way this could go. No, not this, not here, not that man, not now. Not ever … not ever. No. No no no no nononononono!

"No!" it punched out of him, "NO!"

Any other time, Dean might've been embarrassed about the inhuman screech he let out, but dignity was far from his mind now. Despite the arm near-crushing his windpipe, Dean took up his struggles again, harder than before even though he'd have bet anything that it wasn't possible. He kicked and scratched and headbutted, used his arms, legs, knees and fingers to cause damage, any kind, even the smallest would help. He might end up fucked anyway, but he wouldn't lie down and take it. He would not!

Something hard connected with his already hurting elbow, he felt something snap in his finger. His head hurt from the concrete-wall and probably from the chin it had made contact with and it felt like one of his teeth was loose. Dean wasn't screaming, not yelling or making any kind of noise except an angry, furious hiss. He didn't care anymore about the outcome. If he would end up dead, the only thing he could take with him was the satisfaction of doing the most damage that was possible against an opponent like this. His Dad wouldn't have reasons to be ashamed. He'd have fucking evidence how hard he'd struggled, how long he'd fought, even if it killed him. Might be better anyway.

"Stop, kid, stop, stop!" he heard through his haze and pain but he didn't, wouldn't. He couldn't stop, not like this.

With a kick, his legs were suddenly swept out from under him and he fell to the floor, hard. The breath went out of his lungs and before he could catch himself, Bob was sitting upon him, knees left and right from his upper body, pinning his arms down. He was trapped, underneath his attacker, his orange-clothed crotch close enough to see.

It only made him struggle more, wriggling, kicking, moving like an eel but he couldn't escape, couldn't move, couldn't hit anything. He was trapped, trapped, trappedtrappedtrapped and he couldn't breathe, a heavy weight on his chest. Dean took in more air, and more, but it wouldn't reach his lungs. He was suffocating, dying, pinned like a fucking butterfly and he'd die, die, maybe…

Last thing he saw before everything turned black was a heavy fist coming right at his face.


	2. Chapter 2

_a/n:_

_ I warned before, but I think it's better to do it again. There will be a rape-scene in this chapter. It's NOT who you expect, though, so that might be another warning OR it might make it better?_ _Also, apologies for not warning for harsh language...So, WARNING: harsh language._

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><p>"Kid?"<p>

Someone was talking to him. Had been for a while, Dean remembered but he'd been too in and out of it for the voice to register. He felt pleasantly numb and warm, didn't want to wake now, not ready yet to face the day and Sammy's scowl for once again having to eat Cheerios instead of Lucky Charms. The geek wouldn't be appeased by knowing it had been a bargain, would take it as another reason to bitch at Dad.

Dad… Wasn't Dad home? Why wouldn't he make breakfast then? And why was the bed so freaking hard? Felt like concrete.

"…, boy?"

With a jolt, Dean's brain caught up with the events. Shoplifting, gun, judge, prison. Kitchen, library, Bob O.

Bob O.

A hoarse croak was all that his dry throat managed, not even close to the threatening yell he'd wanted to make. Shit, no, he'd been knocked out. He was alone, had been pinned, to the mercy of that fucking huge-ass pervert!

Scrambling wildly, he tried to get away, relieved when he managed to do so easily. Something tangled with his legs and he was certain that it were his pants but refused to acknowledge that yet. He had to get away, away, away. Had to!

His back hit the wall, again, and he tried to stand. A sharp pain shot all through his elbow when it came in contact with the concrete and his vision, already blurred, went white for a moment. His knees buckled and he dropped back down, fists raised even though they were shaking and wouldn't do much towards protection.

Breath came in short bursts that hurt his throat, and Dean tried to dig himself into the wall. Of course to no avail.

"Hey, calm down kid. Nothing's gonna happen"

Bob sat in front of him, but far enough away to be non-threatening. Or, well. Less threatening than he already was naturally. His face was calm and looked strangely kind, no trace of the leering from before. Most importantly, the way to the door was clear and Dean taxed the amount of strength he would need to get to it and through it. Too much for his state right now.

"You ok? Want some water?" Bob asked and Dean eyed the bottle warily and shook his head. "Sure? Ok" and the man took a big swallow from the plastic-bottle himself, sighing contently. There was a considerable amount less than before, and he had swallowed, Dean was certain. Thirsty, he licked his lips and when Bob O offered it again, he nodded tentatively.

With surprising sense, the big man closed the cap and rolled the bottle over, not leaving his place and not coming closer. The water was cold and ran in a pleasant torrent down Dean's throat, hitting his stomach sudden and unexpectedly hard. He coughed, wiped his mouth, and started to take in his surroundings and his own appearance.

Dean was still clothed. That was the most important and most surprising realization. Jumpsuit where he'd last seen it, shoes and socks and buttons all like they were before. He felt beaten to a pulp, and his elbow hurt so much it was shooting arrows of pain straight to his brain, but he was pretty sure that there was no damage done that couldn't have been done with clothes on. Or that couldn't have come from his own struggles. The thing that had tangled with his legs turned out to be one of the jeans-shirts the inmates were allowed as additions to their jumpsuits.

It wasn't his, and the number on it was clearly the one on Bob's suit.

Huh.

"Huh…" was all he could say, not able to come to any reasonable conclusion on how he wasn't a debauched little victim now.

"So…" Bob scratched his bald head "so you might be wondering why I didn't… you know. Hm?"

"Yeah, well, a little? Maybe?" Dean croaked and took another swig, not leaving the man out of his gaze. He didn't trust him yet.

"I'm not like that" the inmate held up his hand when Dean scoffed in disbelief "I know, I know. It looked differently, but that's not me. Warden Markus asked me to … play a part. I'm in here for life anyway so there wouldn't be any repercussions that I could fear. Also, he trusts me to … well. Know when to stop. He was pretty wrong with that, I guess" he mumbled and looked away in what appeared to be shame.

"Wait, what? You… you played me? You fucking toyed with me? Jerked me around to … to do what? Make me break down and cry like a little bitch? For shit and giggles?"

"No!" Bob defended himself "No. Not just for shit and giggles. See, Markus… he'd seen so much around here. So many young guys come in here, no real hard-timers. They are nice, good-looking, and they get … dead in here. Next time they come here – and most do – they are in for the real stuff, angry, hard, hurting and so damn dangerous. He just thought this new program, if done right, will do some good. And if the kids get shaken a bit more than they would usually, that'd be a bonus. I just… didn't realize… it never went like today. They never freak just like you did. That was… unexpected. I'm really, really sorry"

Dean blinked. He hadn't expected that, not from the way Bob had acted around him. It had felt so fucking real, so … "What was I supposed to do? Just whimper and take it?" He was pissed. Sure, Bob might have acted really well, even his backwater-accent was gone now, but still…

"Basically, yes. That's what happened before. They broke down, begged and cried and I could talk to them. You nearly kicked my kneecap out, kid." Dean felt a surge of pride at Bob's incredulity. He wasn't a pushover, no matter how he looked! "And when you were hyperventilating, I just … kinda knocked you cold. Sorry?"

Dean gently examined his jaw, relieved when it worked ok and was only a little tight. Hyperventilating didn't sound so hard-ass anymore. Sadly, he couldn't pretend it didn't happen, or that it had come from anything but cold terror.

So at least he knew now who'd been staring holes into him all day. How he could have missed him, big and obvious as he was, Dean wasn't sure, though. "Uh, so did you stare at me all day, then? I mean, you must have some real magician-skills if I didn't spot you. You're not exactly … tiny."

"What? No, I've been here all the time, library is my place. Someone starin' at ya wasn't me, but honestly, it doesn't surprise me. You should take good care, kid. Best stay here, if you … don't feel awkward or anythin'. Oh, hey, sorry about not bringin' you to the medic, but…" it looked weird, seeing that huge man flustered and blushing "wasn't sure it'd be good. For you, I mean. Didn't want ya to not know I wasn't serious and all…"

Dean just shrugged. He did hurt, yeah, and he was pretty sure his finger was broken. He would need someone looking over that, broken bones were one thing his dad always treated very seriously, except when it was a toe. But in hindsight, it was probably smart that Bob hadn't let him just run away. If he'd run from him, he'd have been easy picking for anyone outside and if Bob wasn't the one lusting secretly after him, there was someone else out there.

Not a comforting thought.

It was awkward. Damn awkward. He tried to work around the older inmate, tried to be chatty and cool and just like he'd been before, in the kitchen. But it wasn't working.

Dean flinched whenever Bob came close and while he tried his best not to react, he knew that the man had figured it out. Strange, though, that the giant looked like he'd been chastised whenever Dean froze or jerked away.

"So, uhm… You come here often?" Dean tried for conversation and would've happily cut his tongue out when he realized what a stupid-ass sentence that was. Jeesus, had he left his brains outside? Lucky for him, Bob just smiled.

"Library is something good here. I like to read, nothing else is really entertaining. TV's the same shit every day and the talk around here's pretty low on intellect" Wow, the bald, big, towering mountain sounded like Sammy. Geeky and smart, not like the country-hick he'd pretended to be before.

"So, what did you do? I mean, not… to get here, but … uh, before?"

"Ah, kid… I used to be a structural engineer. Long time ago… Guess you can say I fucked up a bright and pretty future…" he sounded a bit sorrowful but shrugged in the end. "If you take only one thing outa here, I'm hoping it's this: never let a woman jerk you around so you don't know right from wrong anymore"

Dean nodded. What else was he to do? Not like he could tell Bob that that was one thing that'd never happen. He'd never settle for one girl anyway!

In the evening, before they got to eat a measly dinner of bread and some cheese - or if you were suicidal enough, some green salad – Dean felt it again. That prickle on his neck, the tendrils of desire making his skin itch. He didn't turn around, though, just went over to Bob's table where he'd been invited to, grinning at his newfound friend and his old comrades. The other three men looked no less intimidating. One was a huge guy that even towered over Bob, with skin as black as the coffee Dad liked to drink. Joe was his name, and the younger, smaller, slighter and nearly pretty man next to him was clearly his … yeah, how to label him? Friend? Lover? Prison-bitch?

Dean dismissed the latter. Louis was clearly not a prize, nor a possession. He was quick-witted and smart, loud-mouthed and smiled a lot. His hand kept snaking up to Joe's backside, touching whenever he felt like it. The way Joe leaned into the touch was enough to show those two weren't just bed-buddies.

Was nobody's business but theirs, Dean thought. Of course it pricked his curiosity, but he remembered the very, very uncomfortable talk he'd had with his dad one night, after making a thoughtless comment about a maybe-possibly-probably gay acquaintance. The lesson had been hard, embarrassing and very memorable.

"Uh, can I ask you something?"

"Sure" Louis grinned "Shoot"

"So… can any of you guys tell me who's looking at me right now?"

Louis took another bite of his bread, chewed and then looked over Dean's shoulder, casually and with glassy eyes. After a while, he turned to Joe who had resumed his talk with Bob and never seemed to have taken his eyes from his friend. The black man nodded and then smiled at Dean.

"Some punk-kid that came in with you is glaring daggers at your backside. Dunno what his deal is." Warren? Maybe. "And … Delmar. Of course Delmar" Joe's voice had turned icy and cold, cutting and dangerous. His arm shifted closer to Louis and Dean wondered if there'd ever happened something between the man called Delmar and the two. Probably. "Don't ever be near that fucker, kid." Joe warned "He's the guy with the scar on his face. Also, maybe you should warn the punk to be a bit more careful. Whenever Del isn't looking at you, he's licking his lips over that one. The one with the earring" he clarified, though Dean had known it was Warren. 'Punk' was exactly what he was.

Nighttime. Dean couldn't sleep, didn't dare close his eyes. He tried to shut his brain off but it wouldn't stop twisting, turning, churning. He could try and stuff his fingers in his ears, but it wouldn't do anything towards stopping the pained moans from the cell next to him, the whimpers and sniffs.

He'd tried.

He had, really. He'd gone over to Warren, tried to warn him like his friends had said. Dean had tried to explain but Warren had been stupid and had sneered at him.

_"What, you wanna give me advice? Who do you think you are? Some punk-ass-kid from the suburbs? Trailer-trash, that's who you are. I saw you talking to those ass-fuckers over there"_

Dean had growled at the insult to his friends, but Warren hadn't even noticed, or maybe he'd just been too stupid to take it as warning. He'd just gone on sprouting bullshit.

_"And if you are comfortable with selling your ass, fine. But don't come and try cornering me, or sell my ass to anyone. I'm not gonna let anyone near me, including you, Freak. My dad's gonna tear them to pieces if anyone touches me, he's gonna make their life a living hell! So yeah, thank you for your concern… kid. But I don't need your help, or whatever you think you're doing here. Just amscray"_

When Dean'd tried again to get a word in, the asshole had made honest-to-god shooing-motions towards him. And yeah, right. There was a limit of shit he'd take just so he could save someone who didn't want it, who thought of him as a lower life-form.

He'd turned around and left.

Now, Dean wanted to take it back. He wanted to go back in time, change his decision to leave. He'd tell the other boy that some people didn't care, that they had nothing to lose anyway, no matter who your father was. He'd go and punch Warren, kick him in the balls or something so he'd be in the infirmary or somewhere else, anywhere else. Just… not here. Not next to his cell, sniffing and crying and breaking Dean's heart.

It didn't matter knowing that he'd tried, that Warren had been too stubborn to accept help. It didn't matter, because it hurt to hear him, because he knew that he'd failed.

_"Kid, come, I gotta… show you something in … the library" Louis tried to steer Dean away from the showers and the gym, grabbing his arm._

"The library's closed, man. I just wanna grab a shower. See how my arm's turning purple and such" Dean'd been in the infirmary after dinner, waiting in a long, endless-seeming lane to get his injuries looked at – and mocked over by the male nurse who'd called them 'baby-scratches'. At least he'd had shut up after seeing the claw-marks on his abdomen. Now, Dean's finger was wrapped against two others of his hand, his head hurt and his elbow was still stinging whenever he made a move with his arm. He only wanted to be clean, sleep and get out tomorrow. He didn't want to go look at stuff, and he didn't feel particularly trusting today of men who wanted to 'show him something'. So he twisted out of Louis grasp and went into the changing-room.

At once, two big, burly white Arian-Brotherhood-assholes stepped up to him and held him at his shoulders, not caring at the pained gasp that sneaked out when they dug their thumbs in his muscles.

"Private session" one of them growled and shoved at him. Dean was prepared to leave at once, he was, but a sob and cry made him look past the inmate.

Dean wished he hadn't. Wished he'd listened to Louis, wished he'd never seen what he had.

_Warren was bent over one of the benches, arms forced behind his back. He was nearly naked, his suit piled around his knees. From this distance, Dean could see his tear-wrecked face, the black eye he was sporting and the pain, humiliation and fear that was written all over his face and deep inside his eyes. The plea for help._

Delmar, or at least who Dean assumed was Delmar, was behind the boy, fucking him with brutal thrusts and a very concentrated expression

He must have made a noise, a whimper or something because with a snap, Delmar's eyes focused on Dean and a lurid grin spread over his disfigured face.

"You can let him… in here, guys" he panted while he forced the boy beneath him further across the bench, grunting when Warren tried to wriggle away and just wrenched his arms upwards even further, grinning at the pained whimper from the boy. "I might … have time for him… to join us. He can… get that pretty mouth … of his into… good… use… Uh-uhm… Maybe … uh… for allofus… hu-uuh"

Dean didn't think, just let instinct take over. There was no doubt that Delmar was serious, no doubt those guys at the door would do – and agree to – what the scarred man suggested.

With a swift motion, he applied Dad's secret weapon. He ducked-twisted-kicked-punched one of his captors in the crotch, grabbed his balls and squeezed with all his might until the strong man buckled and whimpered. Dean squabbled back, out the door and right into Joe's arms. He yelled, nearly squeaked in fear but Joe just grabbed him up like he weighted nothing and carried him away, under his arms like a sack filled with potatoes.

Dean had struggled, a little, but had succumbed fast to the strong grip and the gentle, silent "shhhhh" from the big man. Joe had put him down somewhere far away and held him at arm's length until Bob and Louis had appeared, concernedly checking him for any kind of damage.

"We haveto… they're… Warren… Guards?" Dean'd stuttered but Bob had just shaken his head, a sad but resigned expression on his face.

"No" he'd said "If we tell anyone, our life is for shit in here"

"What?" Dean had demanded "you've just told me you didn't have anything to lose anyway, and now…"

"That might be true, kid, but I got friends who _do_" he'd looked over at Louis and Joe who at least had the decency to avert their gazes."Not to mention that the Arian Fuckers can make my life more than just a little miserable"

"Yeah" Joe agreed "so far, we've been able to scrape by. Me'n Louis are in no gang, since… well, Spics and Niggers don't mix well –"

"Except we do" Louis had butted in. "Kid, believe me, I would like nothing better than to get in there and kill Delmar and his minions. Nothing" he'd snarled and Joe had grabbed his neck and squeezed reassuringly, which had calmed him a little. "It's just… not reasonable. The odds of one of us getting a payback, of one of us not being vigilant enough… sorry to say that, but it's just not worth it."

"So, you're saying… if I wouldn't have run out…"

Silence had answered his unspoken question, and those sad, sorrowful looks on the faces of his newfound friends were now drifting up behind Dean's closed eyelids, right along with the never-ending pictures of Delmar raping the kid named Warren.

He just wanted to be home. He wanted his dad.

The next morning, breakfast was a somber affair. Or it was for Dean, at least. The inmates behaved like nothing had happened, and probably to them, nothing much had.

The kids, all except Warren, though, sat silent and subdued at their table, not making eye-contact with anyone.

Dean sat alone until he felt a huge hand across his rigid neck, until Bob dropped his bulk next to him. "You trying to get yourself killed here, kid? Trying to prove something?"

"What if I am? What's it to you?" he snarled, but deflated when he looked up into Bob's concerned face. "Sorry" Dean muttered "bad night"

"I know. I'm real sorry. I really am, you know? I'm in here for the long haul, dunno if I'll ever get out. But Louis and Joe? They will. Not long, just one more year and I'm sorry for that kid, but those two are my friends and I won't endanger their future or their lives. Not for some stranger-boy who pretends to be better'n anyone in here"

He looked up when Delmar crossed the room close to their table. Dean followed his gaze and put all the fury he could muster in his eyes, shooting daggers at his newfound enemy. The fucking asshole-rapist had the guts to taunt the kids - to taunt anyone who knew what'd happened - with Warren's earrings, still crusted with blood, dangling from a chain around his neck.

Dean felt a slap on his back, full of admiration if a slap can express such a thing, and Bob left his paw there until Joe and Louis joined them.

He had no idea what breakfast tasted like, or what had been on his plate.

"Dean?"

"Huh?"

"Boy, I asked you if you wanted some more gravy" Dad repeated and Dean tried to shake himself back into reality.

Reality of a shabby diner, his own clothes, his own boots - with laces! – and an annoying brother who was stuck in a book and a father who wouldn't stop giving him concerned glances, no matter how often Dean told him that he was fine.

And he was!

Dad had picked him up from prison and they'd hit the road at once. Sam had tried to bitch about leaving again to Dean but had stopped soon. They'd spent half the day inside the car, for which Dean was really grateful. His baby – still Dad's baby, really, but only nominally – soothed him and he'd slipped into sleep.

Now they were in… Arkansas? Wyoming? Who knew, who cared as long as they were miles away from that place. Dean hadn't slept well, even though his bed had been a lot more comfortable than the prison-mattress.

He might have been less talkative than before, but really, that was just because he was tired. It wasn't any reason for his dad to look at him like this, or for Sammy to be all nice to him, even offering him his pillow.

He'd tried hard not to snarl but it was hard work. Dean felt like his skin didn't fit anymore, like there was something else living inside. He couldn't get the sounds and images out of his mind and he wanted to talk to somebody, except he really, really didn't.

So, when Dad took him aside that evening and asked him if he was ok, if something happened and tried to assure him that there was nothing he couldn't tell… he just growled and turned away. It might not have lead to Dad being less concerned, he realized.

He knew he was being an ass, but he …couldn't. How could he tell what had happened, what he'd let happen? How could he explain that yes, there was friendship among thieves (or whatever) but that it stopped right with those friends, didn't extend to someone outside who needed help.

How could he make his dad understand that he felt at once like having raped Warren along with Delmar, and like having been raped himself? How?

So he did what any Winchester (except Sammy) did.

He swept it under a carefully woven carpet and took some more gravy.


End file.
